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“I don’t know what happened. I don’t have any memory of it.”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to.” My sweet man, he’s blocked out the terror of the crash. That’s probably for the best.
“I’m not going to be able to drive this weekend, am I?”
I shake my head. “And maybe not next week. We’ll have to see. You’re going to be here for a while. Lucas will be here with you. I’ll be here too.”
Depending on his shoulder, he might not be able to finish the season. But that’s not important. He’s alive, and that’s the only true thing I need right now. Jack will have to take over the team. There’s simply no way I can handle that.
“You will? You’ll stay?” Max frowns, like he’s confused.
“Yes, the doctors said they’ll bring in a bed for me. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hmph.” He strokes my arm. “The last thing I remember is us, swimming. Did we go swimming at some point recently? And kiss in the water?”
I’m crying again, fresh tears. “Yes, we did. We stayed in a cabin in the mountains of Quebec and we went swimming. It was wonderful.”
“I told you I love you after we ate apple pancake. I haven’t forgotten that.” He beams and looks at me with a loving gaze.
I laugh, and cry, all at the same time, then brush my lips softly over his, making sure to avoid his injured shoulder.
“And I love you, Max. So much.” I bury my head against his arm and weep.
Chapter Forty-Four
LILY
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
It’s still dark when I slip out of our warm, cozy bed at six in the morning. Even though it’s Miami, it’s still a little chilly because it’s February, so I go to the walk-in closet and throw on a pair of fuzzy socks, along with my favorite pink sweatshirt and a pair of pink-and-white flannel shorts.
As I’m padding out of the bedroom, Max’s voice hits my ears.
“Babe? Why are you getting out of bed so early?”
I return to the bed, leaning down to kiss his neck. His smooth skin smells faintly of his cologne and warm, sleepy man.
“I’m making something special for today.”
He reaches for me, trying to pull me back on the mattress. “What’s today?”
For a second I think he’s serious, and I’m about to reprimand him, but when he laughs softly, I realize he’s merely joking.
“You know what day it is,” I tease, nibbling on his neck. “Now let me go cook. Go back to sleep.”
He lands a playful swat on my butt as I climb out of bed and head into the living room. The morning sun is about to break over the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean, and a soothing, dusky, blue hue illuminates the sky. Its warm glow reflects off the other skyscrapers nearby, the light bouncing off the cold steel and glass.
My first order of business is the most important: making a pot of coffee.
Then, as I check on my plants, I repeat my mantra. It’s a new one, different from what I used to say each morning in my old job and during those crazy weeks when I ran my father’s Formula World team.
First I say a little prayer silently to the universe, then to the people I love, and finally, to myself. The worry beads live in my home office, near my desk. These days I only touch them when I’m bored on a phone call. The morning mantra works fine, now that my life is in balance.
May I be happy, may I be healthy, may I be safe, may I live with ease.
I take a spray bottle off the shelf and squirt a fine mist onto the giant green leaves of myMonsteraplant. It survived—barely—my mum and papa’s stay here last summer.
I rescued it from a certain death when I came home that August, a few weeks after Max’s terrible crash. When his shoulder was finally stable he flew here, too, and, along with the plants, I dedicated myself to nursing him back to health.
